The Girl From The Savoy

‘No. I’m just minding them for someone.’

She seems more interested in the photograph anyway. ‘And who’s this?’

My heart leaps. For a moment, I am back with him. I see his face, my hands trembling as I open up the lens on the little VPK camera. ‘It’s my brother,’ I say, grasping for an explanation and holding out my hand to take the photograph from her.

She looks at the image a moment longer and hands it to me. I place the photograph under my pillow along with the pages of music and sit protectively beside them as I pull on the other stocking. Mildred walks back to her bed. She glances at me over her book, her silent interest in me unsettling.

‘What’s the house list?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject. ‘O’Hara mentioned it.’

‘Ah, the famous house list.’ Sissy rolls onto her back, sticking her legs straight up in the air like fire irons. She doesn’t seem to care that her dress falls around her hips and shows her knickers. ‘That’s the most important thing. It’s the list of guests. We’re given a copy each day and expected to remember who’s staying in which apartment and suite. We need to know the names of their valets and lady’s maids, their secretaries – even their silly little dogs.’

This is bad news. I’m awful at remembering names. ‘Doesn’t it get confusing?’

‘You get used to it. The regulars always ask for the same rooms. Some of the apartments have the same residents for months at a time.’ She stands up and walks over to the window. The rain is still coming down in torrents. ‘The Mauretania docks in Southampton tonight, so we’re expecting a load of Americans to arrive on the boat train tomorrow. We’ll be rushed off our feet.’ She turns around and leans her back against the window, amused by the look of panic on my face. ‘Don’t worry. The Savoy is a tightly run ship. It’s like clockwork, all the parts clicking and whirring together to move us all around to the right place each day. I don’t think about it anymore. I just go from here to there, and there to here. I grab a cuppa and a bite to eat when I can, and fall into bed at night exhausted. Don’t even have the energy to take off my undies sometimes. But it’s all worth it when you see Fred and Adele Astaire dancing on the rooftop.’

‘Did you see them?’ I ask. ‘Really?’ I have a picture of them both in my scrapbook. I would give anything to dance as wonderfully.

‘Yes! Really! I was polishing windows one minute and the next, there they were, dancing a quickstep and a photographer taking pictures of them. You never know what’ll happen at The Savoy. Better get used to it.’

This is what I had imagined when I thought about working here: stars dancing on rooftops, Hollywood bigwigs. This is the magic I heard in the words ‘The Savoy’.

‘So, what are the Americans really like?’ I ask as I pull on my frill cap. ‘Are they as glamorous as everyone says?’

‘Dresses and shoes to make your head spin. More importantly, they tip well. You’ll do fine as long as there’s Americans upstairs. Save those half crowns and you’ll soon have enough for a pound note. Before Christmas, you’ll have a fiver in your purse.’ She nods towards Gladys. ‘Or a fancy powder compact, if that’s your thing.’

I gaze at the compact on the bed beside Gladys. ‘Oh, it is my thing.’

‘Selfridges,’ Gladys brags. ‘Had my eye on it for months. Isn’t it the bee’s knees?’

‘Think you’re the bee’s knees,’ Mildred mutters.

I’d almost forgotten she was in the room. Gladys and Sissy roll their eyes at me.

I stand up and slip my feet into the shoes that have been provided for me, black as night but at least they have a strap and button. I spin around to face my roommates.

‘Well. Will I do?’

Gladys smiles. Mildred’s left eye twitches. Sissy nods. ‘Yes, Dorothy,’ she says, mimicking O’Hara’s Irish accent perfectly. ‘You’ll do very nicely. We’ll make a Savoy maid of you yet.’

I wish I knew her well enough to throw my arms around her. I wish I could kiss her dumpling cheeks and thank her for the vote of confidence. Instead, I tug at the counterpane on my bed, straightening the creases I’ve made by sitting on it. A habit of mine. If I can’t untangle the knots in my heart, it seems that my life must be spent untangling everything else, setting things straight, making neat all that has been messed up.

Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

I think of Auntie Gert’s words and feel the flutter of restless wings on the edge of my heart. If adventures are waiting for me here, then I’m ready to find them.

‘Right, then,’ I say. ‘Where do I start?’

While Gladys and Mildred head out for their afternoon off, Sissy takes me down to the hotel storerooms and back-of-house operations, a bewildering maze of corridors and rooms housing all manner of weird and wonderful things. She shows me the audit room where male clerks hunch over desks, the stationery and fancy goods stores, stores for glassware and china, and even a silversmith’s repair and replating room. In the linen stores we collect bedsheets, pillow slips, and chamber towels and load them onto a trolley. Then we fill a wicker basket with cleaning products and supplies: feather dusters, scourer, polish, chamois cloths, soap tablets, tissue paper, drawer liners, and pomanders. When we have everything we need we push the trolley down another long passageway that leads towards a service lift. A cool draught blows through an open door. I shiver in the thin fabric of my dress and hope I haven’t caught a chill from standing around chatting to strange fox-haired men in the rain.

As we make our ascent to sixth, Sissy consults several pages of foolscap paper clipped together. The house list. ‘We’ll do suite 601 first,’ she says. ‘Occupied by a Miss Howard, travelling from Pennsylvania. Arrived yesterday evening. Daughter of an American shipping magnate. Plenty of expensive shoes to try on.’

I gasp. ‘You do not.’

‘’Course I do. We all do.’ She leans casually on the pile of towels. ‘Perk of the job. We’ll never live their lives, but what’s the harm in a dab of perfume or a quick try-on of a silk shoe?’

I’m shocked. ‘But what if you get caught?’

‘You don’t – or …’ She makes a dramatic slicing gesture across her throat. ‘Gone. Marching orders. On the spot. Never get a reference or work in service again and then it’s a life of prostitution and vice for you, my girl.’

She sees the look of horror on my face and bursts out laughing as the lift jolts to a stop. She slides back the grille, pulls the trolley out behind her, and strides off along the corridor.

Stepping out of the lift, I’m struck by the decor. It is rich and sumptuous, a noticeable contrast to the stark functionality of the rooms below. Elegant ferns and great palms drape like chiffon over willow-pattern pots. Impressive gilt-framed paintings of seascapes and ballerinas pattern the walls. Tiffany lampshades cast a soft creamy light and huge chandeliers dazzle like icicles above our heads.

Sissy calls over her shoulder. ‘Stop gawping. Wait till you see the river suites, and the Grand Ballroom. Makes these corridors look like the staff passage.’

I hurry after her, my feet sinking into the plush pile of the carpet. We pass two gentlemen discussing a painting of a ship being tossed around on a stormy sea. It makes me feel queasy just looking at it. One of the men wears small round spectacles. He is portly and dressed for dinner. The other man is dressed casually in cream slacks and a blue shirt with a mint-green knitted vest. He wears a lemon-coloured cravat at his neck and his black hair is slicked neatly to one side. He leans against the wall, his crossed ankles revealing plaid socks. The man with the spectacles looks up as we pass.

Sissy acknowledges them both. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, Mr Snyder.’

They bid us both good afternoon in reply as the elder of the two gentlemen stares at me. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,’ he says. ‘Are you new?’ His tone is authoritative, but not unkind.

I mumble a reply. ‘Yes, sir. I just started today.’

‘Ah. A new recruit! Splendid. Welcome to The Savoy – the largest and finest luxury hotel in the world.’

His colleague laughs. ‘In your opinion, old man. The manager of the Waldorf Astoria may not be inclined to agree!’ His accent is American. Brash and confident. As he speaks, his eyes travel from my shoes to my cap and everywhere in between. I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘But your standards are most definitely going up,’ he continues. ‘Much prettier staff than last year. A carefully planned business strategy of yours, I presume? Anything to drag the punters in!’

My cheeks redden as they both laugh at the joke.

‘Don’t let us hold you up,’ the older gentleman says. ‘Plenty of work to do. Tempus fugit.’

I follow Sissy along the corridor. As we turn a corner, I glance over my shoulder. He is still staring.

‘Who was that?’ I whisper.

‘The governor. Reeves-Smith.’

‘No. Not him. The younger man with him.’

‘That’s Lawrence Snyder. Larry to his friends. Big Hollywood somebody or other. Comes over every season to spot the new talent. Entices them to America with the promise of starring roles in the movies. He’s the one Gladys has her sights on. Can’t blame her. He’s so handsome. And that accent!’

‘I thought he was vile. Did you see the way he looked us up and down?’

‘Looked you up and down, you mean. Serves you right for having those great big eyes and shapely ankles. Anyway, all the gentlemen look at the maids that way. The prettier ones, at least. You’d better get used to it, Miss Dorothy Lane.’

My stomach lurches at her words. I instinctively place a hand to my cheek. Sometimes I can still feel the pain; the sickening thud of his fist.

Reaching a white panelled door, Sissy knocks firmly and calls, ‘Housekeeping.’ Hearing nothing in reply, she turns the key and steps inside. I hang the MAID AT WORK sign on the handle and close the door behind us.